Through the Glass
by TheEvilBunny
Summary: If only perfection were much easier to resist. RobRae R&R please
1. First Impressions

**Chapter 1**

**First Impressions**

His own voice echoed in his head as his hands were thrust against the pockets of his worn-out sweater.

It was four o' clock. The sky was ablaze with light, tinting the roof of his house with a deep crimson gold. His heavy thumps on the wooden stairs sounded around the house, waking the sleeping child in the room next to his. His mother had warned him more than often not to do that—to think that she should have been tired of scolding him by now.

He shut the door to his room, locked it, threw his bag to a corner, and collapsed on the bed. He heard his mother muttering something like "rotten kid" to herself as she went up the stairs to quiet the youngster, not even knocking to check if her first child was fine.

No one ever bothered to ask him how he was anymore, and with that, he's learned to succumb into his own isolation. They didn't care that he was flunking his subjects, or that he was an alcoholic (much like many other students his age), or that he had a regular meeting with the school shrink because he "had a problem". No, they didn't care at all.

He was literally counting the seconds as he lay on the bed, not minding the many books he'd brought home so he could "study". He reached under his bed and grabbed a bottle. He popped off the cap, drank, and finished it just as easily as he had thrown it into the trash bin.

He was only 13— turning 14 by next month, but he was more of an alcoholic than any other boy or man older than him. Maybe it's because of his father—because he was an alcoholic, himself; or because he was in and out before the new baby was born. He was only 10, back then. Maybe it was because of his mother, who was just as broken as he was— left to raise a family on her own. He loved his mother, even if she didn't love him.

He got off the bed, stumbled a little bit from dizziness, and leaned on the black window pane. It was surprising how, in the past 13 years of his life that he spent living in their house, that he never actually looked _looked_ out this window. Maybe in all the times he really DID look out this window…he was either sleepwalking, distracted, or just plainly drunk. He only realized, then, how isolated he was, trapped inside a cage that he'd built for himself— not to keep himself in, but to keep everyone out.

At the moment, there really wasn't much to look at. All he could see was their neighbor's beige wall; their wide back yard; a bay window on their second floor, just about a meter to the left from his own; and another wide window to the right. It wasn't a mansion, but it wasn't a shack either. Not too shabby, but not too elegant. It was just right. It seemed like the kind of house that only exists in the world of miniature dolls, or the kind where the one-big-happy-family neighbor lived. For some absurd reason, the house seemed like a trick of the light— like it's something that only existed in his dreams.

He looked into the window to his right. The glass was exceptionally clean, framed from the inside by a frilly blue curtain. The walls of the room, he could see, were painted white decorated everywhere with detailed butterflies of assorted colors. On the door was a poster of a ballerina, elegantly positioned to reveal her hourglass figure, her head tilted back in a graceful fashion. Beside it was a bookshelf, filled with pocket books, scrap books, memory albums, and many other books of many other kinds. Around the corner was a queen-sized bed, draped with a thick white cotton fabric. On the headboard leaned white teddy bears of different shapes and sizes, and around each of its necks were different pastel-colored ribbons that glimmered with glitter and silver studs— which, he had presumed, to be a collection.

The door to the room opened, and there stood a petite, shapely girl. She was just about his age, he had guessed, although her pale skin proved otherwise. He saw her release her long purple hair from the tight bun, leaving curls and waves. He saw her carefully place her ballet bag inside her closet, and admire the red silken leotard and tutu inside, tracing every golden stud and button. He could tell how much she had wanted to wear it soon, to show it off as she danced center stage. Her lips curled into a smile, and he could sense a hint of pride and excitement, and at the same time, nervousness and fear. What if she got something wrong? What if she wasn't beautiful and graceful enough? What if all she'd worked for would not be good enough? Questions raced through her mind, he could tell, just as fast as they had rushed into his. Almost in an instant, he felt sympathy for her, living her life to the expectations of other people; for once in his life, he found that those who were,_** are**_, perfect were not so perfect after all.

He saw her make her way to the bed, sitting down with the utmost care. She winced slightly as she pulled her knees to her chest, massaging her bleeding toes (he swore that he saw a slight glimmer of tears in her eyes). The way that her smile faded, the way her lip quivered from pain, and the way that the tears finally came rolling down her cheeks was heart-breaking. _The world_, he thought, _was crueler than he thought it had been. Being perfect came with a heavy price— she was a fragile young lady, a perfect, beautiful, graceful, __**fragile**__ young lady. _

What was this? Was he feeling sympathy? Was he _feeling_? It seemed like such along time since his heart felt the burden of grief. He found himself alien to the feeling of a heavy heart and empathy. For some unknown reason, the very fact that he was _feeling_ meant so much to him that the sadness didn't hurt as much as it was supposed to.

He gazed at her intently, piercing his eyes into every single detail on her pretty, no, _beautiful_ face. Her long lashes curled lightly; her eyes…yes, her eyes. They were nothing like he'd ever seen before. Her eyes were so impossibly perfect. They were in a shade of very, very light purple (so intensely purple that you could see them clearly even from a distance) reflected with the swirling colors of dusk, which makes them look like swirls of red, blue, and purple— much like the sunset, in itself.

Her eyes flickered to his direction and his flickered away.

He tapped his fingers on the window pane uneasily, beating the impulse to look back at her. He didn't want to look at the stupid sunset. It would happen every single day a year, but seeing her that way, it was different— it was more unlikely (and undeniably more worthwhile) than meteor showers, or eclipses, or rainy-yet-sunny days. Undeniably worthwhile, indeed.

He dared to look back, just to take one glance— just to see if she was still looking. His eyes slowly moved toward the direction of the wide window.

For what your heart is set to do, your body will follow— that's what they always say. Or maybe, at least…that's what he always thinks he hears. That's what he believes.

Maybe that was what was happening to him now. His heart was set to follow the girl of his dreams.

Hah. That sounded nice: the girl of his dreams. _In__ his dreams_. He was completely out of her league— everything he couldn't even dream of being, she was; everything he couldn't even try to do, she did; and the very life he couldn't even have in his wildest fantasies, she was living.

_Funny how life works_, he thought. For his whole life, he learned to push people away, and treat them like dirt, just as they've treated him. But this one person who doesn't even know he exists, is so reachable he could lean forward a few inches to brush his finger against her hair— that one person he saw as perfect, and the one he would willingly give his heart to, was so reachable, yet still very far away.

How could he have been to utterly stupid to have fallen for someone so perfect, so flawless?

This was why he stopped feeling in the first place. Because feeling meant hurting— such a heavy price to pay for something so simple. How easy it was to feel, to be sad when his father left. How easy it was to hate when his mother hated him back. How easy it was to fall in love with someone you can never have.

This was why he stopped hurting…at least, he thought he did. Because hurting was the hardest part of it all. Everything that starts so simply has a not-so-simple ending. It was hard to let go of rage, to release all the anger, and just learn to forgive his father for everything he had done for…to his family. It was hard to love his mother through it all— it was hard to return hate with love.

Now, he thought, I would be hard, once again, to let go now that he had a hold of it. He would have to go through it all again— the tears, the hurt, the pain. It would be hard to move on. He was tired of watching his hopes fall, but he had to.

He had to.

Somehow, _feeling_ never really looked as bad as it was.

**Author's Note: **in an alternate world, this is how robin and raven's lives are. (in my point of view). I switched their lives...'cause it's more interesting that way. :D Where Raven is the perfect daughter, and Robin is the unwanted, father-hater. Peace, people. I hope you like it.


	2. Names

**Chapter 2**

**Names**

"Happy birthday," he whispered, peering out of the wide window, now marked with finger and hand prints all over. The cool of winter finally died down, and the sweet scent of spring filled the air— at least, it did _outside_ the house. Their little "home" smelled with the stench of his mother's beer and cigarettes— two things he's finally learning to let go of. Only two of the many things he's learning to let go of. He was fifteen now, almost a junior. He was lucky he was still studying—his three part time jobs are finally paying off. Surprisingly, the past two, supposedly, painful years he had spent earning money to pay for his tuition fee were not at all a burden. He'd found himself a sanctuary— something to keep him alive for two more years, and the many years to come.

His little brother was recently set up for adoption by his mother last January. She said she couldn't "take the pressure" and she "had enough troubles to deal with". He could see, though, that she never really wanted to let go. Maybe, just maybe, she did care for them…even just a little bit.

It had been only a year and a half since he had first met her— if you would call a simple glance a meeting. He'd been looking out his window everyday, after school since then— hoping to catch her glance again.

He looked out toward their neighbor's wide backyard, which was now filled with banners, balloons, chairs, tables, and people. The whole back yard was surrounded with flowers— daisies, poppies, tulips, rose bushes, and wild flowers. On the patio was a round table, filled with presents, all packaged with fancy gift wrapping. Around the left side of the yard was a long table, filled with assortments of food, and a layered cake in the center. Above it was one giant tarpaulin that said "Happy 15th Birthday, Charmaine". The people who were scattered around the garden were all dressed in fancy clothes— girls wore poofy dresses with ribbons and flowers, women wore heels and cocktail dresses, boys wore buttoned-up shirts and shiny leather shoes, and men wore vests and fancy shoes that you could only find in stores like Polo and Burberry, and in countries like France in Italy.

And there she was. All dressed up in a blue, flowy, knee-length dress. Her hair was tied into a half-ponytail, and her long, straight hair was curled so lightly that it looked as if they were naturally curled. She wore high, strappy, silver heels, which made her look even taller than she already was. She carried herself with a certain pride, even when she bent down to kiss and greet her friends and relatives. She remained poised throughout the entire time— her back was slightly curved, her chin was up, and her shoulders were relaxed. Her beauty was stunning, and the way she carried herself set her apart from the many people who came to greet the her.

"..Charmaine…" He said, in a low, raspy voice— the sound coming from his chest, heaving down as he exhaled her name. He whispered so softly that his own ears could not hear, and he was left with the sensational taste it left in his mouth— and that was enough to keep him going.

He says her name again. And again. And again. With the same intonations, the same tone of voice, the same quiet whisper that he so desperately want her to hear.

He could taste her name in his mouth— like a bittersweet nectar that oozed out with the utmost passion. He felt its burn as it wrapped itself around his lungs, allowing him to only take a few breaths per beat of his heart; it felt warm on his throat, urging him to speak louder, but his voice was so silent it could barely be considered one and instead was an exhale of breath, as the whistle of his lungs filled the silent ringing in the air; it was cold on the tip of his tongue, freezing, even. So cold that he shivered as he spoke her name. So cold that he could actually feel the breeze of winter through his closed room in the middle of spring. So cold that it burned his tongue. But her name was so sweet, so sweet that it slurred off his lips like honey and he could not stop himself from speaking it.

Her name on the tip of his tongue sounded like music. Music like he had never heard before— a ringing sound of harmonies and melodies; bells and tympanis— all blending into each other in a steady symphony. He said her name like a bow strokes the strings of a violin as it plays a gentle tune of a musical piece (so soft, so tender), the resin left a trail of what was and then disappeared into thin air (he would never want anyone to know). He spoke her name like a finger slides through the keys of a grand piano, gliding through every key in a slow rhythm. Even as the melodies rise into great passion, the music remains quiet, silent. He spoke her name like a song, and it breathed music into his ears, and life into his corpse.

Her name brought sense to his being, and somehow, he felt closer to her than ever before.


	3. Dusk and Summer

Chapter 3

**Author's note: **to my reader's forgive me. This story was originally a non-fanfic, but I had to post it, so I changed it a bit to fit it to RobRae. Do you guys want to keep Raven's name as "Charmaine", or do you want to change it back to Raven? Please review afterwards to I know what you guys want. Thanks! 

**oooooo**

**Chapter 3**

**Only Human**

He was seventeen. She was sixteen. It was a quiet Saturday evening, about an hour upon her return. She broke his heart that night.

He sat in front of his wide window for two hours and twenty five minutes before she came in. His leg shook in impatience and he tapped his fingers on the window pane in an unknown rhythm. He mouthed silent words of song as its steady tune played in his head. The house was quieter than ever before. His mother had gone out on her first night shift for her new job— she was finally doing something to keep him in school. In a small scale (though it meant so much to him), she was finally showing him that she cared for him.

The house stank of rot and empty beer bottles that had been in their house for months. The stench of smoke still had not drowned out, since his mother had no plans of ending her habits. He'd thrown away her cigarettes once, and the beer, too; hoping that his mother would simply give up and quit cold turkey. He got a handful of beating in the back (a surprising first), and the shallow wounds mixed with his mother's tears (a painful combination); but his mother had not smoked for a month from that day. From then on, the frenzied smell of his mother's vices had been at a minimal. She still loved him— that was a fact.

He stood up in ecstatic surprise when she finally entered her room. A wide smile was sprawled on her face that night— a smile that was too familiar to him. The sides of her mouth did not twitch, as if her lips were always positioned that way, a slight glimmer in her eyes made him cringe in pain, as she turned her back on him. It was the same smile that he etched on his lips whenever he saw her. The same smile he gave her that day when he had first seen her. The same smile that he'd so painfully tried to give her over and over again for the past few years. She smiled like she carried the world in her hands that night.

She was holding _**another's **_hand when she entered. Their fingers entwined into each other, and their eyes never glanced away from each other. She locked her room with a quiet click so no one could hear. They sat, and he watched, as they whispered loving words to each other. He leaned closer trying to make out what it was that they were saying to each other, but their words were too quiet, too real, and too true for anyone else to hear.

He could hear none but three words that they mouthed to each other quietly.

"I love you." She whispered.

"I love you, too." _**He **_answered back.

_**He **_ran a hand through her hair carelessly, and brushed a stand away from her face. _**He**_ __caressed her cheek. _**He**_ made her trust _**him**_when _**he**_ __whispered promises to her ear. _**He**___did not make her feel protected, and _**he**_ did not hold her like _**he**_ would never break her—_**he **_did not. But _**he **_looked at her without emotion (no matter how much _**he **_tried to), and that meant the world to her. She cared for someone who did not care for her. _**He**_ made her gullible and _**he**_ was going to use her— and she knew that. _**He**_ made her feel like she was not perfect. But she loved_**him**_ because _**h**_**e** made her human.

And that was something he could never do. He loved her too much, he loved her like no one ever had and ever will— that he could not bear to make her feel human. Because human meant mistakes. Human meant heartache. Human meant pain. And he could not bear to do anything to hurt her.

_**He **_leaned in closer and caught her lips in _**his **_as _**he **_dropped his hand on her waist. She bit his lip clumsily, and he kissed her with much passion. Her back arched painfully as he pulled her closer with his strong arms. She dropped her hand to his neck, and as he kissed her harder, tears came down her tightly closed eyes.

He could see the pain in her eyes, but she loved it. She loved feeling human, more than anything in the world— and he could see that. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, but he could still hear her quiet sobs (even if no one else could).

She pulled back in pain, as she caught her breath. She rested her head on _**his **_shoulder, but she let _**him **_run_** his**_ lips down her neck, behind her ears, and on her now-bare shoulder. Tears were now streaming down her face, and_** he**_ continued like did not notice, but she pulled _**him **_closer.

_**He **_looked up to him, as if in mockery; a smirk was on _**his **_lips as_** he**_ bit her neck.

He grit his teeth in anger as his nails came screeching down the glass. He banged his head on the glass, silencing himself from his quiet groans of desperation. He wanted to kill _**him**_. He wanted to hurt _**him **_so badly,_** he **_would kill _**himself.**_ He wanted _**him **_to feel like what _**he's **_making her feel. He bit his lip so hard that a few drops of blood came dripping down his chin. He groped the glass for anything to hold on to, leaving scratch marks here and there. He could not scream, he could not destroy. All he could do was watch in pain, and cringe on the thought of _**him **_owning her.

She bit her lip as she sobbed, but she pulled _**him **_closer, resting her head on _**his **_crooked back. Her long hair was wrapped around _**him **_like a blanket. _**He **_undid her shirt, and she gave herself to _**him**_. _**He **_closed the curtains, and the rest was history.

He punched the cold glass, and scattered his things, and turned away.

He could imagine it all in his head, and it made his heart beat rapidly in his chest. He knew _**he **_would not have her forever, but the very thought of _**him **_having her for one night was unbearable. He knew that later, as he lies on his bed trying desperately to fall asleep, he would hear a clicking door, and quiet goodbyes; but the thought of _**him**_ being there made him wish he could kill _**him.**_ But he knew that she loved it, she loved _**him**_; and that kept him from doing what he wanted to do.

How he wished that one day, he would have her as _**he **_had her— only a little less painful, a little less human. But there is no such thing, is there? There is no little less human. There were only two sides to it: human and perfect. And he could never have her either way.

His heart pounded tears into his eyes. But the emotion kept him alive. He was more human than ever before.


	4. Gasoline and Regret

Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Gasoline and Regret**

Today was his day.

The house had slowly lost its natural stench, and his mother had finally taken into cleaning the house every once in a while— and this, he found, worked to his advantage. He no longer smelled of rot and booze (all those years of living in a stench filled house rubbed off on him), and his mates no longer avoided him like they used to. He had also started to use perfume every so often, just to make sure that all that stench did not cling to him anymore.

He gussied himself up in front of the mirror, running a hand through the spiky jet black hair. His sharp features were clear through the dimness of his room.

He checked every bit of his body– from the broad shoulders that sported a black hoodie and white shirt, to the muscled legs under those blue jeans, and to the nearly-numb feet in those tightly tied black All Stars.

No way was he going to let that lame excuse for a gentleman have her. He wanted to present a teensy bit of competition— hoping that he was competition enough. He wanted to have her, more than _**he**_ did just two nights ago. It was more than just that hormonal teenage boy lust, it was real— and he hoped to God that she would know that, too.

As he opened the mahogany door with a "click", his lip trembled. His heard pounded loudly against his ribcage, and he took in sharp breaths. His All Stars squeaked as his foot touched the sun-drenched pavement.

The feeling seemed all too alien to him. He walked like it were like any other day— thrusting his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, and staring down to the ground. He breathed out with every step of his left foot, and leisurely walked— as if he were walking to school, only on a sunny Saturday morning.

With every slow sway of his shoulders, he found himself crawling deeper and deeper into a black hole that sucked him in like there was no tomorrow. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, but his body did not tremble— he was not afraid, nor was he nervous; but he was not confident about anything either. He just merely found himself preparing to be lost forever, as if inching closer to a body he could never step away from.

Then there she was— walking out of that doll-like house with somewhat like a scowl on her lips.

In front of their house was a giant loading van, and around it stood furniture of different kinds. Men in blue jumpsuits carried the furniture into the truck, and a man and a woman— who he had presumed to be her parents— stood on the sidewalk, happily holding each other. They looked like any other married couple— the man in slacks, shiny brown shoes, and a checkered button-up top; and the woman in a beautiful collared red dress and mary janes. They were not too young, he could see, as the man had a bald spot on the top of his head; and the woman had strands of white in that beautiful head of long, purple hair, much like her daughter's.

She stood on her doorstep, putting a lazy hand to her hip, and leaning on one leg. He noticed, only then, when his eyes darted from her to her father, that the two looked nothing alike. He quickly dismissed the thought and shifted his gaze to the beautiful girl standing in front of the door.

She wore a magnificent white day dress that fitted perfectly around her hips and waist. She turned her head towards him, her long, straight hair flying like a blanket against the wind, whipping against her face as she stopped her eyes on the man behind her. She did not even cast him a glance, as he thought she would— he may have looked conspicuous standing right in front of her mailbox. She ordered the man to load the box he was carrying on the truck in front of them with a swift movement of her hand.

He did not stop and ponder what he would say to her, he did not stare at her magnificent beauty, and he was not lost for words as she stood right in front of him. They did not have that perfect connection, nor did either of them suddenly feel the urge to kiss the other. They did not stare intently into each others eyes, and instantly fell in love. She stood there, not even giving as much as a glance toward him; and he stood there, watching as they mounted boxes into the moving van.

He felt a tug at his chest as he struggled to open his mouth to speak words of love and passion.

He didn't.

He simply walked away, with not so much as a word, kicking a rock out of the pavement in the process. He looked sideways toward her, and he found that he was closer to her than ever before. His shoulder was inches from her chest, her hair brushed lightly on his hoodie with the gust of wind, his face was so close to hers that he imagined himself leaning in slightly, and touching her lips.

Everything stopped as her beautiful lilac eyes focused on his for what seemed like forever. He felt her riveting gaze boring into his soul, digging deeper and deeper into his humanity.

In that split second, he felt like he was stripped bare of everything— free for everyone to hollow out all that was left of him.

"Charmaine, let's go…" her mother called out to her.

He found himself jumping a bit at the sound of her mother's voice, as he turned his gaze back towards the ground. He swallowed. **Hard.** As if swallowing down the fact that she wouldn't be there anymore. That he could never even look back at her window, to find that comforting face that kept him alive for years. He couldn't completely comprehend that she was leaving.

He stopped.

_**She was leaving. **_

His heart skipped a bit, and he stopped in his tracks, hearing the last "squeak" of his shoes on the pavement.

He turned around, his heart pounding loudly in his ears, hoping that he wasn't too late. All he had was right now. Right now to say "hello". Right now to make a memory that would last forever.

His head jerked, his body twisted, as he turned to face a moving car, with a pretty little girl inside.

_**She was gone.**_

And all he was left with was the stench of smoke, gasoline, and regret.

He ran. He ran for his life. But with each beat of his heart in his ears, and each step of his foot on the sidewalk, she only seemed to drift farther and farther away. The car taunted him with the sound of its roaring engine, as if daring him to come closer.

He never got close enough.

He breathed out, and he collapsed to his aching knees. He held the pavement for support, pulling himself up.

Through gritted teeth, he took sharp breaths.

_He __**needed**__ to find a way to get her back._


	5. Booze

Author's Apologies: I'm terribly sorry I haven't been updating…I've been doing a lot of stuff lately, so I didn't have time to

**Author's Apologies:** I'm terribly sorry I haven't been updating…I've been doing a lot of stuff lately, so I didn't have time to write my fic…again, I am so sorry… Hopefully, this chappie will make it up to you guys… I'll try to speed up my updating process from now on… Apologies again…. 

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**Chapter 5 **

**Booze**

It seemed like years, centuries, even, since he'd last seen her. He, now, didn't have the comfort of coming home to see that perfect face, with that perfect smile, and the perfect everything that he never thought he'd come across. He was beginning to fall out, fall in, give in, and give everything away just to have her back within arm's reach— but then again, just because she was within arm's reach didn't really mean he could reach her.

He lost his senses, and he retreated back to that dark place where she took him out of when he first saw her.

Even his cold-hearted mother seemed bothered by his change of heart. She'd asked him, once, if he wanted a bottle of beer, just because— and to his mother, a bottle of beer was as meaningful as a large chocolate cake; and he wanted a taste of chocolate cake from his mother.

She sat beside him as he drank down the cold beer. For once in his life, he felt like his mother cared. He felt a certain connection with her at that moment— and for once, they looked as if they were a family. A troubled one, but still a family.

"It's a hard life, 'aint it?" she asked, as she eyed him curiously. She wasn't holding a bottle, herself, but she seemed amused that she found a way to ease her son's troubles. It didn't bother her that her son was beginning to go back to the way he used to be— it was her idea, after all. But in all honesty, she kind of liked the new son— the one that cared enough to stop her from completely succumbing to the booze.

She ruffled his hair, and looked at him like a mother would. She held his head as he lay it on her shoulder. She smiled and whispered to his ear. "You can have as much as you like, but don't forget what it did to me."

There was a slight quiver in her voice as she kissed him on the forehead, and walked toward the kitchen to start with the dishes that had been unwashed for two days.

She worked with a smile on her face as she scrubbed the plates with her hands, but watched him from the corner of her eyes. He was still drinking, but she trusted him. He was not stupid, like she was.

He drank his heart away, but he never thought that even the relief that alcohol could give couldn't take away his troubles like it used to. He was finally immune to the effects of booze— and he found that extremely comforting, regardless of the fact that he needed those effects right now.

But then again, he couldn't honestly say that he didn't have alcohol since he first met her. In fact, **she** was his alcohol. **She** was his drug.

He couldn't have enough of her, and he couldn't bring himself to ever be away from her. She soothed his soul, and took away all that he couldn't bear. He was addicted to her, and when he first had a taste of who she was, he couldn't have enough— he kept coming back for more. She brought him a different kind of relief— the kind that not only numbed him, but kept him alive. Though she didn't know it yet, she could have even saved his life.

He took one last swig from the bottle he was holding, and drank down all its contents. It hit him, hard, and he felt a slight queasiness. He stumbled off the couch, dragging his feet against the dusty Asian rug, and hitting his knee on the mahogany coffee table. He tossed the bottle away in a trash can full of empty beer bottles, and searched around the house for more. He looked inside the fridge and in the cupboards, and even in his mother's room, where he expected to see a hidden stash of booze, but didn't. He needed more. He needed alcohol.

He might have looked like a serial killer on the loose as he dragged his legs along the cold pavement, and stuffed his chilled hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. But in truth, he was just a guy looking for a convenience store— an excruciatingly far convenience store. He always wondered why they never built stores like these around his side of the town.

People who passed him stepped away, and children who saw him ran off to their parents. He'd heard a lot of mutters, even as they tried hard not to let him hear.

"Careful, honey, he's a very dangerous man."

"Looks like _**someone's**_ got a problem."

"Like, ew…he smells like my alcoholic ex."

He clutched his hands around the cold metal bars of the convenience store door, and heard the jingle of bells as he pushed it open. The cashier greeted him with a plastic smile, and turned to the customer she was attending to.

He passed rows and rows of candies and junk food until he finally reached the long refrigerators in the end of the store.

He opened it, and felt the cold rush to his body quickly. He paused for a moment, as his hand itched to grab the biggest bottle he could find. The familiar stench rose to his nose, and he moved closer, as if intoxicated. He carelessly grabbed a bottle and stumbled back to hit the shelves full of candy. A few fell on the floor, but he didn't even think of putting them back on the shelf.

He could have sworn he was swaying as he walked toward the cashier, because his vision seemed to blur a bit already— but he guessed he wasn't, because nobody stepped out of his way.

"May I see an I.D., sir?" the cashier asked eyeing him carefully.

"What?" he asked annoyed. He hoped that he scared the hell out of that cashier. He was only 17, and he was unauthorized to buy alcohol— at least, not until his birthday in December. Maybe, he thought, a little bullying could make him look older than he really was.

"An I.D., sir. We do not sell alcohol to people aged 17 and bel—"

"Don't I look 18 to you?!" He asked, flailing his arms in the air. He said it loud enough to sound like a protest, but soft enough for the security guard not to hear.

"Please, sir. If you do not have an I.D. to confirm your age, I can't sell you alcohol."

"Hey, buddy!" a man asked from behind him. "Are you going to buy that or what? You're holding up the line back here!"

He took a second to cast a glare to the man, then frowned in defeat at the cashier.

"Fine." He sighed, shaking his head, and walked off toward the door.

His calloused fingers encircled around the handle, and it opened with a jingle. The night poured into his body, and the sting of the night breeze felt cold against his cheeks. He shivered and stepped forward, coming face to face with a familiar figure.

He froze in his steps, as did she.

Their eyes met, and he sidestepped to make way for the perfect young lady before him, long, straight hair whipping against her face in the chilly night. But it seemed as if they moved together, dancing in the night as they stepped from right to left, and their eyes never left each other.

He didn't know which way to go. He moved right, and she followed, he moved left, and she followed. It was like they never wanted to step away from each other.

She chuckled slightly as she smiled, whispering "Oh, excuse me."

When they finally made amends, her going right, and him going left, they finally parted, and he found himself staring at her from the door. He smiled as he realized his mouth was slightly open, he looked down on his feet, and stepped into the night.

He moved sideways, to lean against the store walls, waiting, a comforting smile pressed against his lips.

He was going to get his alcohol tonight.


	6. Daddy Dearest Demon

**Chapter 6**

**Daddy Dearest Demon**

It only took a few minutes until she finally came out, holding a plastic bag in one hand, and the other inside her coat pockets.

The sound of her shoes clicked against the sidewalk, and he let her take a few steps before he moved forward to follow her.

She could have ran for her life if she found out he was following her— an alcoholic behind you in the middle of the night doesn't seem too comforting, after all— but her ears were under ipod heaphones, and she seemed oblivious to everything that was going on around her.

It was a fairly short walk to her house, and it only took a couple of minutes. The sky was dark from the taint of the midnight moon, and the wind blew with the sound of rustling leaves and broken soda cans.

She climbed her front porch— which was much less cleaner than the porch they had in their old house. It was a quaint little two-storey house that was painted a dull shade of yellow. It no longer looked like a pretty little doll house, but instead, there was a certain tinge of sadness that surrounded it that made it feel more like a prison than anything else.

She knocked quietly on the whitewashed door, and shuffled her shoes against the classic "Home Sweet Home" doormat.

Her mother came out to greet her with a faint smile on her lips, whispering something to her daughter— something that made pretty little perfect Charmaine shove her way angrily into the house.

He settled himself on the bench in front of their house, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible (though that idea may have been profoundly impossible). His shadow bent over the dull sidewalk as he struggled to find himself a comfortable position under the tall lamppost.

He was sure that the room to the left of the house belonged to her. It had the same pastel colors, the same collection of teddy bears, and the same poster that she had from their previous house. It looked almost exactly identical to her previous room. Though he had come to fall in love with the comfort of the room's colors and natural serenity, he found that this new room had more horrors to it than anyone could ever imagine. He didn't know exactly why he thought this, but there was a certain tangible sadness that surrounded the room— and he hoped that that sadness did not belong to her.

He closed his eyes wearily, almost succumbing to the slumber— or the lack, thereof— that had been plaguing him over the past few days. He opened them just in time to find her walking into her room, followed by a menacing looking man who she had an incredible resemblance of.

He had never seen the man, though he could tell that part of the sadness that surrounded her room was because of him. He had long white hair that didn't look like it was because of age, and his skin was as pale as hers. He had eyes that swirled with red and purple, and looked more like a burning hell than a beautiful sunset. Though his eyes swirled with anger, he realized that the man's eyes and Charmaine's eyes looked utterly alike. He never noticed it before now, but Charmaine's eyes were not only plagued with beauty, but also with hatred.

He watched as the (he presumed) father and daughter replaced the sadness of the room with anger— shouting words of disgust for each other. He was afraid for her— he thought that maybe, if given a little push, the fragile girl would break, but she didn't. Porcelain was beautiful and fragile, but it also could survive through many years.

He was taken aback when the back of the man's hand came in contact with her cheek. She stumbled to her bed as she struggled to regain composure.

He was several meters away, but he could see her cheek darken to a shade of red in a matter of minutes (and he was positive that sooner or later, that would change to an even darker color). He gritted his teeth at the thought that he couldn't do something— that no one could to anything to help her. He stood up abruptly, yearning to hold her in his arms and tell her that everything would be alright. But he couldn't do that— as soon as he would walk into her room, she would walk out of his life. It wouldn't take too long for her to realize that he was willing to do anything for her— and no matter how sweet that may sound to other people, the very idea that someone's out there following you home, and watching you wasn't very sweet at all. And in all honesty, he knew that. So he didn't walk into her life.

Tears soon began to fall from her eyes as she pointed a shaking finger to her father. It didn't take a genius to figure out what she was telling him— no doubt she was telling, not asking, him to leave.

He imagined the whole scene again, as if he were right there to watch it happen…

"_I'm never going to forgive you! Not after what you've done to me and mother!" she shouted angrily, her heart pounding loudly at her ears, and adrenaline rushing through her veins._

"_Charmaine, do you really think I'm here to ask for forgiveness?" he cocked a head and tossed back his white hair._

_She gritted her teeth. "Then what? Are you here to screw mother up again?" the bitterness slurred through her lips._

"_Why, you ungrateful child—" the back of his hand made contact with her cheek. "You should be happy I let your mother give birth to you. Or else, you wouldn't be alive now!"_

_The rise in his temper did not startle her— she was accustomed to his fits, and she thought: maybe that was why her mother left him._

"_Who says I'm alive now?" she muttered under her breath, cursing him silently. _

_The room was silent, and sadness rushed back in as she struggled to stand up again. She pointed a finger at him, and tried to muster as much courage as possible as she said with a firm voice: "Get out."_

… and that was what he thought happened, and he was fairly sure that was how it all went out. He smiled, pleased with himself for coming up with a plot like that, and pleased to find himself for thinking of ways to hurt the man as he had hurt his daughter.

He opened his eyes (that he didn't even noticed he had shut) and came face to face with the exact same man that he was plotting revenge on.

He cursed under his breath when the man shoved him off his way.

The man turned back with a menacing look, hearing him mutter something he wished he hadn't.

"What was that you said, boy?"

He could have sworn the man was glowing red, and he almost ran away from fear. But no— he was no coward. He huffed up his chest, and looked at the man dead straight in the eye.

"Nothing_, sir_," he answered bitterly, proud that he had done so much as to stand up for himself. His lips twisted to a smirk as the man slowly walked away.

He whispered a quiet "Go to hell"— because he was fairly sure that's what the man considered home, whether or not he was a demon (though he honestly believed he was one).

The man was gone in a matter of minutes, and he made sure that the man wouldn't come back before he turned to leave as well.

He whispered a goodbye to her, as he walked away. He didn't mean to walk out of her life— but little did he know that he just did.


	7. Providence and Porcelain

**Chapter 7**

**Providence and Porcelain**

He woke up too early for his own good the next morning, and he rubbed his eyes at the satisfaction that he would be able to see her again today.

A smiled tugged at his lips when he slipped on his bedroom slippers and rushed to the bathroom for a quick shower; he looked like he wanted to marry his bowl of cereal as he ate it; he was 'whistling a happy tune' while he brushed his teeth; and to top it all off, he kissed his mother goodbye before he stepped to greet the fresh scent of the morning wind.

He felt like nothing was going to stop him today, and he felt happier than any other man who was about to get married that day. He was unstoppable, unbeatable, and completely and utterly invincible.

His exterior looked like it always had— jeans warming his legs, all stars hiding his feet, and a hoodie over his head— but underneath it all, was a smiling boy who was about to see the love of his life. It may have sounded utterly clichéd, but he was head over heels for her; and, as much as he hated to admit it, his little crush had turned into something more than infatuation over the years; and, for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid of it. _He wasn't afraid of it at all._

He could have almost bent down and picked flowers, or even patted the heads of the dogs he passed by; but his life was no Disney movie. He's had more than just a bad life— he had a cruel one— and it was filled with so much hatred and so much pain. Many would think it clichéd— a problem child with a problem family and anger issues— like any other Spanish novella. But, as clichéd as it may sound, it was true; and his life was far from a Spanish Novella, and more unlikely, a Disney Movie. Some people were simply made for a clichéd life— we can't all have exciting adventures.

Sometimes, people just don't realize that when something's cliché, it happens more often than anything. Yes, people get tired of it. But it really does happen often.

For seventeen years, he had absolutely nothing to live for. He had never strived for anything, he had never dreamed like many did, he had never had a taste of that drive to attain something good— until that moment.

She was his passion, and she brought excitement to his clichéd life. He was no longer the "problem child with a problem family and anger issues"; but now, he was a "problem child with a problem family and a girl to live for". Love changes everything, you know— even people.

Perhaps there was a reason he looked out that window at the right moment— a reason why she caught his eye right there and then. Perhaps their destinies were intertwined for a reason. Perhaps they were meant to change each other's lives. One lived for the other, and the other lived for one.

Perhaps she was meant to bring back the natural smiles to his lips, and perhaps, he was meant to find that fragile girl and fix her up.

He reached her house with the thought that maybe, they were meant to be lovers. Maybe, their destinies were not only intertwined in a way that would change them for the better; but maybe, they were intertwined in a way that they would _**be together**_ for the better.

But also, maybe, destiny had a way of tricking people into thinking those thoughts. Fate, after all, was cruel— more to some than others.

Perhaps he was supposed to wake up early that day and see her hanging from her ceiling, when no one even noticed anything. Perhaps he was supposed to be happy that day, just so destiny could play around with his feelings even more.

But whatever destiny had in mind, people could never be aware of it— and that was what made life so complicated. The twists and turns of fate never failed to surprise people.

He froze in his steps at the sight of a beautiful lady hanging from the ceiling, her head bent down to cover her peaceful face. Dried blood stained the collar of her shirt, and she was still.

It hit him right there and then:

His beautiful porcelain doll was broken.


	8. Of Searing Stupidity and Aching Almosts

He held her in his arms, the fabric of her bloodied shirt grazed his warm skin

**Chapter 8**

**Of Searing Stupidity and Aching Almosts**

Tears that he had saved for her welled up in his eyes. He had never remembered a day when he was truly that sad.

He cried crocodile tears when his father walked away, he did not cry at all when his little brother was carried to another family, and he couldn't care less when he saw his mother mourning over the father who might as well have been dead.

But that moment was different. Tears poured out from his eyes from emotions that he never knew he even had. A tugging feeling rose from the depths and pits of his stomach and lurched up to form sobs and wails. The feeling was so untapped, unknown that it almost seemed like he'd never felt it before.

The silver tears fell from his face like rivers, and they felt like sadness and misery trickling down his cheeks—leaving marks where they had fallen, as if teasing him that they were there. It was then that he took the liberty of doing something enigmatically stupid, yet perfectly just.

He ran to her.

He pushed the door open with a loud_ BANG_! And he found himself caught in what seemed like tangling ropes that were actually the arms of Charmaine's parents. He released himself from the strong hold of her "father"—and I believe many could say that that was not so much a cup of tea— who was more than just a tad bit confused about what was happening (you could only imagine what a man would think if a young man came bursting into your house for no apparent reason at nine in the morning— it is not very pleasing); and he struggled against her mother's pleads to "leave them alone"—they were ear-piercing wails, mind you.

He dragged his legs up the stairs, two steps at a time, almost surging forward every step or so, practically banging himself into the cold cemented walls.

He pushed himself into her room with his shoulder (and he was well aware that a bruise would form there later on), and drew in a breath that sounded more like a wail, a scream, and a gasp all at the same time.

There she was, hanging on a three thin pieces of nylon thread— which, he thought, came from her father's workshop (as do many other nylon threads) in the basement. He didn't know where that conclusion came from, and he didn't even know if her father even had a workshop in the basement. He could simply imagine it—every perfect family needed a hammer-induced-do-it-yourself-obsessed father, right?

_But maybe that was just a little too perfect for comfort_, he thought.

"_WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING YOUNG MAN??" _

Her parents entered the room, with questions that he didn't even bother to ponder on—because he was fairly sure that they'd already found the answers to them.

He didn't look back at her parents—he didn't really have to. He could already imagine it all as if he had eyes on the back of his head.

Her father was shedding tears—that were not shed for the death of his "daughter", but for the loss of the mother he was cradling in his arms.

He heard a slight shuffle on the floor, and he knew that it was the sound of a mother fainting; and he felt a weak thud on the floor, which he imagined to be the father kneeling to catch hold of his wife before she crumbled completely to the floor.

He, however, did none of the things her parents did. He'd overcome the shock, and he'd overcome the inciting force that came from the sight of a dead body; so he did what he thought was the most sensible thing he could ever do:

He pulled a computer chair, which he suspected, was pushed away soon after the noose was around her neck, and stood on it. He took hold of her waist with one hand and fumbled around his pocket for his Swiss army knife with the other. He flicked open a blade with his teeth, and brought it up—

"What do you think you're doing, young man?" The father asked again, slightly disoriented and confused—he eyed the boy, squinting his eyes a bit, as if wondering if he'd ever seen him before. His voice was mellow and softer, this time, as he soothed and patted and whispered and shushed.

He did not answer. Instead, he brought the knife to the rope above her head, and started to cut.

_Back and forth and back and forth…_

The blade taunted with its inability to cut through the thin wire in a matter of seconds. He moved faster, frustrated, gritted his teeth, and cut the blasted nylon thread from hell.

…_And back and forth and back and forth…_

His arm was already aching, but he found comfort in the fact that her limp head was now slumped against his shoulder.

…_And back and forth and back and forth._

And that was it.

Her body fell freely into his arms, as the instable chair gave way to stumble away.

He dropped to the floor, holding her body against his chest, rocking back and forth like a little boy, playing with his favorite toy.

_What a wonderful notion,_ he thought. _I'm the boy, and she's just the toy._

For the first time in five minutes, the tears crawled its way back into his eyes again.

He laughed dryly. Never did he think that a girl, nonetheless, this one, could ever make him cry twice on the same day.

It was sort of funny, when he thought of it. It seemed like he was in one gigantic Disney movie without a happily ever after (if that was even possible)—with all the possible clichés and dramas. That moment was probably the worst possible time to ponder about it, but he found himself pondering anyway.

He found himself trying (almost desperately) to remove his mind from the lifeless form of her body in his arms. He tried to pry away the thoughts of her scarred neck, and her motionless limbs. He tried to wash away the blood with his tears, and he tried to wipe away the tears with his shaking hands.

But he just tried, and in this world, trying just isn't enough.

He held her in his arms, the fabric of her slightly bloodied shirt grazed his warm skin.

He fixed her position, like a life-sized fragile ceramic doll. He tilted his head slightly as he tucked her loose strands behind her ear, and as he tried to put a smile to replace the blank expression on her face.

He traced every single detail of her perfect face clumsily; his shaking hand moving against her cold, rough skin. He ran his hand through her smooth locks, as if memorizing every strand of her long, brown hair. And as her head lolled back and lay limply in his arms, her long lashes moved back like a curtain, revealing the perfect eyes that made him so madly in love with her. The color of her eyes looked different— more perfect than he had seen her before. The pastel colors of pink and purple mixed with the blues of the sea and sky.

He hugged her so tightly that all that came out of his lips were wails and moans. He shook her, held her in his arms as he called out. He cradled her head like a mother carrying a baby, rocking slowly. He grasped her hand, tracing every bone, every wrinkle, of her dainty fingers.

He buried his head in her hair, sobbing loudly. The tears dripped down to her bare shoulders. He clutched her head tightly, burying her face against his shoulder, their cheeks (warm against cold) crashing against each other. His face was so dreadfully close to hers, close enough that he could almost breathe back the life into her. _Almost._

He did not kiss her lips, or her cheek, or her nose, or her forehead. He did not mumble wishes to falling stars. He did not dive into a pothole of spirits to save her.

He simply cried.

He cried with as much passion as he could muster, and he cried like a little boy who's lost his mother, and he cried like he carried the weight of the world, and it was all too heavy for him to carry.

He cried like he never did for seventeen years, and he shed tears for himself as well. He shed tears for a life that had been saved, and a life that could have been saved. He shed tears for his mother, his father, and his baby brother; he shed tears for her mother, for her father, and for her "father"; and, surely all knew, that he shed tears for her.

The pain escaped his heart, to his lungs, up to his throat— seething in to the hearts of everyone around him; and no one dared to come closer.


End file.
